The flying years! the flying years!
How rapidly they wing away,-
With all their covey'd hopes and fears,
A mingled flock of grave and gay!

Look on the Past,- a dream, a dream
Of saddening thoughts and cloudy things;
Look at the Future,- does it seem
Less than a Fate with folded wings?

Look to the Present,- this indeed
Is worth our all of cost and care,-
And daily bread for daily need
Is Wisdom's solitary pray'r.